President Darcy

“A snob?” His head jerked back. “To be fair, your family is sort of—”

She didn’t wait for him to dig his hole deeper. Anger simmered in her veins, demanding release. “You interfered in Jane’s relationship with Bing—and she’s still not over it!”

“How did you know—? Never mind, I—” He didn’t even bother to deny it.

Nothing would stop Elizabeth now. “And you deprived George Wickham of his inheritance!”

Darcy looked like he was chewing on something bitter. “Wickham!” he spat.

Elizabeth drew herself to her full height, delivering the coup de grace in a shaky voice. “And then you bring me to Air Force One, all high and mighty, Mr. President, to put the moves on me! Thinking that I’d be so awed by your power that I’d put out for you!”

He staggered back a step as if she had punched him. “That wasn’t what I—I wasn’t going to—I wanted to ask you out on a date, damn it! A date! Not some sort of tawdry affair!”

She scoffed. “Sure you did! Because that’s what old-money scions like you do with nouveau-riche ‘sluts’ like me.”

A pained expression rolled over his face. “I never thought of you that way! I swear. I’m…very interested in you. In dating you. I’ve never felt like this about any other woman.” His hands, balled into fists, were pressed against his thighs. “Just give me a chance. Let me prove it—I really care about you.” His eyes pleaded with her.

It was a good act. Elizabeth snorted. “You’ve been proud and difficult since I first met you. All you do is belittle me and my family. Why in the world would I want to date you?”

His mouth worked, but no sound escaped.

“Just as I thought. You don’t have a single good reason.” Elizabeth stomped to the door, threw it open, and slammed it closed behind her.

***

That could have gone better. Darcy stared at the door, which still quivered slightly from the force of Elizabeth’s slam. Fortunately, he was usually alone at this end of the plane so it was unlikely anyone would come to investigate. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the clusterfuck cake?

Sinking onto the sofa, he drank the rest of his wine. Then he poured a full glass with shaky hands and drank that. Leaning forward, he rested his arms on his knees and hung his head. His field of vision filled with the dull industrial gray carpeting. The sight blurred and swam. “Shit.” He blinked rapidly to clear it.

Of course, other women had rejected him—albeit not recently—but his interest had never provoked blind fury. He winced again at the memory of her angry red face. He had blown his chances with Elizabeth quite spectacularly. Slumping back into the sofa, Darcy massaged his forehead with one hand. Maybe he was destined to remain single. Maybe there was something inherently defective in his character. Elizabeth certainly seemed to think so.

She hadn’t even been particularly gentle or polite in her rejection. How had he read her so completely wrong?

He had been certain she liked him. She had teased him. Flirted. It had been flirting, hadn’t it? The smiles, the jokes, the coy looks—each one carefully stowed in his memory—flashed through his mind. No, he must have misinterpreted her behavior. Based on her reaction, she hadn’t been flirting. In fact, she barely tolerated him. Darcy had just grossly misread her signals. He groaned aloud. No wonder I’m still single. I should stick to public policy.

Georgiana had teased him that someone so socially inept should never run for public office. He thought he’d improved. Through the years in Congress and the Senate, he’d learned to read people and figure out what they wanted so he could work out mutually beneficial arrangements. He could supervise staff. Inspire voters. Get world leaders on board with his plans. His election to the highest office in the land proved that he wasn’t a complete failure.

However, he remained hopeless when it came to romantic cues. His ineptitude had helped to destroy his two long-term relationships. He still wasn’t sure what he had done wrong with those women, which was probably a sign he was hopelessly out of touch. And now this one was DOA.

Romance just isn’t part of my DNA. Gah. Wh

at a farce. He rubbed both hands over his face, staring at the bottle of wine—the label and year he’d selected so carefully. It would help him start getting trashed. Oblivious, floaty disassociation from reality would be far preferable to this gnawing ache.

But presidents didn’t have the luxury of inebriation, particularly not on Air Force One when it was crawling with press. The fundamental unfairness struck him forcefully. Everyone else in the world could get drunk as needed. When life handed them lemons, they could have a scotch on the rocks. But constant sobriety was one of the “privileges” of his office.

Damn the press. Damn the presidency. Damn it all! He didn’t want any of it.

In one motion, he shot to his feet, grabbed the wine glass and threw it at the opposite bulkhead where it shattered into a million pieces. He threw the other glass, relishing the energy of the throw and the loud crash of glass on metal. It wasn’t enough. His muscles itched for more destruction, and his hands moved restlessly until he grabbed the wine bottle and hurled it with all possible force. It crashed into the wall with a deeper and more satisfying sound, splattering wine and shards of glass all over the cushions of the other sofa.

Darcy stared at the wreckage as the scent of the wine permeated the room. That didn’t accomplish anything. I don’t even feel better.

All his energy suddenly drained away, and he slouched into the sofa cushions. God, he was a mess. A proud, difficult, socially inept mess. No wonder Elizabeth didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

How had he fooled himself into believing she could have feelings for him? After their first encounter he had uttered the blasphemous lie that she was stupid and unattractive—and then had insulted her family. It was the height of arrogance to think he could overcome such an inauspicious beginning. What were her words? “Proud and difficult.” Right on the money.

Of course, some of her dislike for Darcy was Wickham’s fault. Goddamn Wickham. Darcy hadn’t spoken to the man in two years, and he still managed to ruin Darcy’s life. Although to be fair, Darcy had done most of the ruining without any assistance. How had he misinterpreted her feelings toward him so thoroughly?

He stared at the door, which failed to provide any answers. Idly he wondered where Elizabeth had gone. Most of the guest seats were taken up by his staff as well as Aunt Catherine and her staff—people Elizabeth would no doubt wish to avoid. That only left…